Bittersweet

Chapter Eighteen:

When I approached the counter, Mr. Paul stood from his chair, flattened his newspaper beside the register, and beamed at me, like an older relative who hadn't seen their family in a while.

It has been a minute, hasn't it? Mr. Paul?

"Oh, my, Kay, good morning! Or is it the afternoon—" He glanced at the wall clock behind him. Sliding his hand through his gray hair, he muttered quietly to himself before laughing. "Where does the time go?"

"Hi, Mr. Paul." Rianne gently tapped the counter. When he looked at her, she smiled. "I wanted to say good morning or," she looked at the clock, too, "almost afternoon before I went upstairs. I have Kyle's key."

"Oh, I know, go on ahead. I just—" He looked back at me as his eyes brightened. "I wasn't prepared for a visit. There aren't any freshly baked treats for you. If I'd known you were coming, I would've—"

"This was spontaneous." As Rianne stepped out through the side door to head into the apartment side of the building, I folded my arms across the counter. I stared at the treats and glass neatly assorted on top. I always promised to keep helping Mr. Paul if he needed me, but after the twins, I came less; he also didn't call. I respected that.

But I missed him and this little shop. My first experience of the city. And Mr. Paul's ability to always lend an ear.

Could I tell him?

"So," Mr. Paul picked up and folded his newspaper neatly, placing it on the chair beside him, "how are you? And Brian? What about the babies? I should visit."

With my chin in my palm, I sighed into a smile and looked at him. He should visit. I should also invite him. It's been a busy few months and now... was hectic. Dangerously hectic. I closed my eyes.

"Something's wrong," he said. "Should I head upstairs to make some tea? I can."

Mr. Paul solved everything with tea but that wouldn't work today, even though I wanted it to.

"I'm okay," I partially lied as I traced my finger along the counter. "It's just been a little crazy for me."

"That's more than a little." Mr. Paul leaned on the counter, too. His smile weakened. "You lived here for a while and helped me so much; I learned your faces and," his brows shot up, "when you're lying."

I held my breath. Mr. Paul, the attentive old man, how could I be mad?

I needed to pull up a chair.

"Um," I looked around the shop and pointed at the seat behind him, "may I?"

His eyes widened. He glanced at the chair, then moved back, motioning to the opened space beside the counter. "Of course."

I smiled. I didn't hesitate to walk around the counter and sit beside him. He decided to lean one elbow beside the register and smiled at me. "Talk to me," he said.

Pursing my lips, I looked down at my hands and flattened them against my jeans. I sighed. "Someone is..." How could I say this without making him worry? The whole situation was scary, and mentally, I combed through the details, settling on the easiest one. "Someone is trying to con Brian out of money."

"I'm sorry, what? Has he gone to the police? Is he okay? Are you okay?" Shock came over him. "This is more than a little crazy."

It is, Mr. Paul, but the entire story is pure insanity.

"I know," I pulled at a curl that hung by my ear, "but I think it'll be okay."

I need to stay hopeful.